


The Brave Art Of Compassion

by Cozy_coffee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bathing/Washing, Blood and Violence, Community: comment_fic, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Friendship/Love, Headaches & Migraines, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Kindness, M/M, Nightmares, Rain, Sam Winchester Takes Care of Dean Winchester, Sweet Sam, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2018-12-17 07:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11847264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cozy_coffee/pseuds/Cozy_coffee
Summary: A fill for the comment_fic prompt; Any, any, the last bullet.





	The Brave Art Of Compassion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mirrored_Illusions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirrored_Illusions/gifts).



For a brief moment in time, they are young and carefree… Innocent with a pure heart. No child soldiers of a nightmarish war. Sam would run and giggle, and Dean would chase him and tackle him down to the ground. They would laugh, and smile, allowing the summer storm winds to carry their giggles off into the sunset.

Dean would tickle his baby brother and Sammy would giggle and giggle until Dean only heard the sound of his pure joy. They stand, still giddy with laughter and walk hand in hand through the corn field, and Sam would exhale softly and turn his baby face up to the sky, smiling as the soft raindrops kissed his chubby dimpled cheeks.

When Sammy smiles, he shines with a brilliant grin that makes Dean’s heart flutter within his chest, and when Sammy grabs his hands and begins to whirl around and around, Dean dances with him in the rain as a sensation of pure joy and happiness starts in his toes, makes him crinkle his nose, smiling at his brother was the raindrops soak his soul in pure joy.

But the good times do not always last. Hunting takes over them, blood and sweat and tears become all they know, and Sam longs for a normal life. He wants to take Dean by the hand and dash away far away from monsters and their father. He loves his dad, he truly does, but he dreams of a time when they can slip off to sleep without keeping a knife under their pillow or a locked and loaded shotgun by the door.

The Winchesters; Saving people, hunting things, the family business.

These days, it seemed like all they did was hunt. Days pouring over lore books and nights battling the monsters lurking in the dark. Come dawn, they were bloody and beaten, and Sam found one truth about this world... Life was fragile. It was a gift meant to be treasured to the fullest because there was always a chance that come tomorrow he, or the world, would fail to exist.

Dean came home battered, nearly being carried by John as he was too weak to stand due to lose of blood. The thought of losing his brother, his protector, broke Sam’s heart as he watched Dad stitched Dean up.

Hunting is dangerous, injuries come with the gig. However, Sam cannot recall a time when it ever got bad enough that life hung by a thin thread. Sam is barely ten years of age the first time Dean returns from a hunt truly torn up. John said it was a simple job, a milk run. He was very wrong. Dean is harmed, seriously. Bleeding and cut up, patches of purple and dark shades decorating his sun golden skin. Three ribs are bruised and hurting, and there is one long, grisly gash cutting across his chest, tearing his shirt to strip shreds.

Two of Dean’s fingers are disengaged and his right ankle is sprained. He spits blood, his bottom lip cut and bleeding. He wobbles like a newborn colt as Dad leads him into the room, John bolsters the vast majority of Dean's weight against his side to keep him upright. Dean’s breathing hard between his clenched teeth and his eyes are glassy and wet, like he has been crying, or fighting back tears to appear brave in front of his father.

Sam lingers by the doorway, big brown doe eyes wide and worried, his fingers fidgeting around the hem of his black hand-me-down AC/DC shirt that hangs huge on his skinny frame. The shirt belonged to Dean until he hit his growth spurt and out grew it.

Three bloody rags douse the table as John patches up Dean, the fabric trickling red against the lively cherry wood. Sam startles when Dean lets out a yowling whimper of torment, heaving between gripped teeth. Dean has never fussed, not ever, and has never whimpered. He generally put on a bold face, even when he is harmed, he smiles and bears it, cocky big brother as ever.

Sam believes they should go to the hospital, but John seems to working some kind of magic with his medical training; stiches are weaved, wounds are patched up with alcohol and gauze. A few pills and some whiskey slightly shush Dean’s broken whimpers.

Sam wants to argue with his father, Dean is injured greatly and needs professional help, yet it seemed like with John’s skill, Dean is cured, as much as possible, that is. Sam moves a little closer when Dad starts in on the ribs, wrapping them with an ace bandage before lightly pressing a homemade ice pack against them. By now, Dean seems a little bit out of it. His head lolls, he is not whimpering any more, and his eyelids are heavy and dropping.  
Sam glances at John, questioning and worried. Dad smiles, a little sad but comforting, brushing a hand gently through Sam’s hair. “He will be alright, Sammy. I promise. He just got really bang up. Help me get him into bed, he needs to rest.”

Sam takes Dean’s hand, careful of the two once broken fingers that have been reset by John and held together with a homemade splint. Together, they get Dean settled into bed, and Sam doesn’t care if he is too old to sleep next to Dean; he crawls in bed beside his older brother, laying his head next to Dean’s on the big, fluffy pillow.

John doesn't scold Sam nor advise him that they are much too old to share a bed. Rather, he tenderly tucks the sheets over both his young men and kisses their temples, before leaving on a supplies run. Dean will require more pharmaceutical and a change of gauzes, and some solace nourishment like chicken noodle soup for when he wake. There is a store up the street therefore he won't be gone lone, he does not wish to be far from his children for a really long time.

Dean slips off into a simple rest on account of the medication, yet Sam stays awake, his fingers twisted around the amulet on his sibling’s neck. He doesn’t realizes there are tears in his eyes until he whispers “Please, don’t ever leave me, Dean. I...I love you.” 

His voice is soft and small, like his words are meant to be a secret. Only they are not. It is not a secret he loves his brother. It is not a secret his heart breaks with the thought of his brother dying, and as Dean sleeps, Sam sniffles softly, begging his sibling, “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

Dean sleeps half way through the night, doesn’t get enough rest before the nightmares come to haunt him. They claw their way into his mind, snarling at him until his heart is breaking. The tears fall, making him look young, younger than Sam who wakes beside him, woken by his cries. Streaking wetness dampens Dean’s freckles, but Sam holds him, cradles him tenderly, and wipes the tears from his cheeks with a soft brush of his thumb.

Green eyes closed against the darkness of the motel room his mind shreds, twisted and torment with images of his mother. Mary burns in the firelight roar of violent flames. She screams, she cries, her teardrops falling down her cheeks like diamonds. Dean sees horrible things in his sleep and it terrifies him, causing him to scream out in the middle of the night.

Dean hisses as his bruised and battered body shakes. Sam crawls closer to Dean and gently tucks himself around his big brother, cuddling him as his big brother cries. Sam gently strokes Dean’s face, fingertips brushing his freckled cheeks stained with sadness. He kisses Dean’s forehead and hugs him tight when the heartbreaking sobs wreck his brother’s body. Sam doesn’t cry; he stays strong for Dean, the way Dean is always strong for him. He can be the brave one now. 

Dean sniffles, restless and exhausted, eyes drooping close before snapping open, wide and worried, weak in the bones. His eyes droop and sleep tries to take him again, yet shakes it off with a grunt that sounds more like the snarl of a wild beast.

“You okay, Dean?” His little brother asks, concerned, hugging Dean gently. With pressure on Dean’s bruised body, his older brother hiss, but Sam softly whisper, “Shh, it’s alright, Dean.”

Sammy. His Sammy. Dean’s body melts like hot wax and he leans into his brothers embrace, feeling so tired his eyes refuse to stay open. Sam cuddles closer, wraps him in warm, softness, a cocoon of shelter against the weariness. Dean slips off easily, but he doesn’t stay asleep for long. The hunter sits up quickly, rubbing at his eyes, trying so hard to stay awake.

When he tries to roll out of bed a hand to his chest pushes him down. “S-Sammy, can’t sleep. Gotta be ready for war…got to…gotta protect you.” He’s slurring now, words sluggish and slow, eyes closed even though he tries to keep them open. He’s so damn tired and he wants to sleep but he can’t; he has to stay awake and protect Sam.

“Hey, brother…” Sam coos in his ear as he slides in behind Dean, wrapping an arm around his waist and hugging him as he spoons him. “Just sleep, Dean. I’m here. It’s my turn to protect you.” He hugs Dean and nuzzles the nape of his neck, pressing a soft kiss to the warm skin.

Dean surrenders, doesn’t fight it anymore. His eyes fall shut with exhaustion, and he easily slips off to sleep, his breathing even and calm. Sam doesn’t sleep that night; he watched over his brother, and Dean slept peacefully knowing Sam’s got his back, always.

The years are long, and the heart break is ever lasting. Sam leaves him, wanting a normal life, and a part of Dean dies the day his brother goes to Stanford. Dean hunts, with John, and without. Endures the loss of his brother by throwing himself into dangerous hunts. His body breaks and he puts himself back together again, but Sam is far from his side. 

When they meet up again, with Dad missing and on the trail of the monster that killed their mother, they find their way back to one another. Little by little, they become brothers again, falling into an easy balance of give and take. 

As the years pass, even though the good times and bad and they have strained from one another they someone, someway, find a way back to each other. As if drawn together. 

The days are dark, and it is not hard to figure out why. He can do the math, can put two-and-two together and if it doesn’t equal four, then he takes apart the equation, studies it, and he doesn’t stop until he either figures out why things don’t add up or he solves the problem. This problem is easy to solve. War is coming. The angels roar a battle cry and the demons howl at the night. Every day is a little bit longer and a lot darker. It ends blood or sad, that is the life, and Dean has made peace with that. He is still alive, breaths in the ash in the air, still keeps calm and carries on even when all he wants to do is crash and burn.

His green eyes flutter closed, his body aches, his muscles burn like acid. ‘Keep calm and carry on wayward son’ his heart commands him, but his weary head and tied soul seek peace and rest. Dean winces against the rough drag of the prickling needle looping threads through his broken skin as Sam stitches him up. The cuts snarl deep, angry red, jagged against his pale freckled skin; the throbbing sting cuts through his veins as the needle slices into him.

A shot whiskey dulls the pain. A wet cool towel to wipe away the blood with gentle hands. Dean can barely keep his eyes open, and he is pretty beat up and bloody and needs a shower, but when gentle lips kiss his forehead and soft hands tuck him into a cozy bed with warm blankets, he forgets about showering and easily submits to the hum of exhaustion.

Sam looks after him, cleans him up with a warm towel and dresses the wounds, tenderly kissing each knot of stitches laced into the skin. He hums a lullaby to his big brother as Dean’s wish for a quiet peace of ground and a long peaceful sleep is granted.

As the years pass, Dean learns to love the rain. 

After the rain passes, everything smells new. Like life being reborn, each soft drop shooing away the deadly putrid air that makes him feel like he is choking on ash. He turns his face up to the heavens, he couldn’t resist taking a deep breath, filling his lungs with the clean air. Water touches his lips, clean and cool, and his bone sort of melt as all the weight in the world suddenly leaves him, he slumps, giggling as he enjoys the freedom from the weight holding him down.

Sam calls to him from the car, reminds him that it’s a chilly day, and he is going to get sick if he spends too much time in the cold—it sort of makes Dean laugh that his younger brother is scolding him as if he is the elder that knows best—but Dean feels carefree like a child, no longer a solider in a bloody war. He runs to Sam and clasps his hands around his fingertips and draws him out into the rain, spinning him around and around, until they giggle like the children at heart they are.

Yet all children have to grow up. They learn, tragically, that not all stories end in happily ever after. The rain fades and the darkness descends, war come to the Winchesters. They hunt, bleed—life goes on. One day at a time. What doesn’t come is the rain. Times like now, Dean missed the rain.

Tonight, the air was dry, suffocating. It was a simple were-wolf hunt. They killed the beast, but took some damage in the way of a victory. Sam has to fight to get Dean’s jacket off his shoulders; the leather is unyielding and stiff, and Dean’s shoulder is twisted in a way that makes Sam’s stomach knots up, and he doesn’t want to cause his brother any more pain than he is already in.

Dean hisses and grunts in achy, teeth gritted so tightly together his jaw cracks. 

Together, they shuck off the coat and Sam is making a shushing hush before he realizes it, hands pausing on his brother’s side when Dean looks like he is about to start crying. The Henley and jeans come off with Dean nearly cursing the devil out of his grave, until Dean sits dressed in only his boxers, his shoulder displaced in this socket and the skin already turning purple and yellow.

Sam gets the shoulder popped pack into place, his stomach rolls when Dean howls like wounded animal trapped in a death snare, his skin sweaty and warm everywhere Sam touches him, until Dean is patched up and then the only sound between them is Sam soft shushing, gentling his injured brother, and Dean's heavy gasps of agony.

A few pills and some whiskey dull the pain, and Dean slumps back against the bed, softly making a pleased noise as his eyelids become heavier until his breaths evens out, and he rumbles with soft snores. Sam cleans up the bloody towels and discarded closes, stripping down to his shirt and boxers and climbing into bed with his brother.

Even asleep, Dean seeks him out, shifting into the crook of Sam's side and settles against his with his head pillowed on Sam's chest. Sam brushes his fingers through Dean’s hair and drops a soft kiss to his forehead, before closing his eyes and following his brother into the land of dreams.

With a little rest and time to ease the wound, Dean heals. Life goes on; saving people, hunting things the family business. Twenty-seven days. Nearly a month of nothing but scorching heat and muggy air. Triple digit long summer days that are so miserable that even a cool glass of ice tea cannot help sooth him. He’s bitchy, he knows he is—even if Sam’s bitch face did not say it loud and clear, Dean knows he has been a royal pain in the ass.

He gripes about the heat before the hunt, during the hunt—although he has to whisper, so he doesn’t give away his location as he sneaks up on the werewolf he ganks, and after the hunt when they drive down the back roads with the impala’s air conditioner screaming as loudly as the rock music blaring from the speakers. 

Dean always gets the first shower, calling ‘house rules, Sammy, age before beauty,’ griming as he peels his sticky shirt over his head before going to battle with his jeans that cling to his sweat slick thighs. The heat is so unbearable that he chugs water instead of beer.

Just when he cannot stand the heat any longer the rumbles come.

The cloud darkens, and he runs outside to chase the sound like a child chasing after the music of the ice-cream man. The first raindrops are followed by the clashing thunder symbols before the dazzling lightning blazes the sky.

While the day may have been hot, the rain is cool and refreshing and comforting, and he melts; so languid his knees weaken, and he falls to the ground to kneel there as the rain soaks his skin, and he breathes a sigh, having missed the rain like missing an old friend.

Sam watches him from the door, a kind, fond smile on his face as Dean tilts his face to the heavens and whispers “Hello rain my old friend.”

A few days later, after the rain has passed, cursed with a dreadful migraine,  
Dean seeks comfort in his brother’s embrace.

Dean takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and exhales shakily, surrounded by Sam’s familiar scent. His brother’s hand smooths up his sides, gently petting him like he was a skittish cat. Dean felt like he had a fever under his skin, overwhelmed with agony that is trying to swallow him. The throbbing in his temple zips through him like an electric current, shocking his heart until it subsided into a low pules, making a sharp ache coil in his belly.

On this night, after a day of sorrow and exhaustion, Sam tries to comfort his brother. Dean lies there, exposed to wandering hands and kind eyes, he tries not to allow his sibling to hear his groaning moans morphing into broken cries; he is in so much pain.  
He would willing relinquish his hold on this Hell for the touch of Heaven.

His heart was full of love and fondness for the brother looking after him, the promise of sweet bliss as Sam’s hands brush over his throbbing temple; his skin is hot, yet velvet soft, delicate. The hands are gentle in the ways like angel wings bathing him in angelic tenderness, and heaven help him they feel so overwhelming good against the pain harming him, he wants to suffocate in the affection.

They caress and sooth, rubbing against his temple with the sweetest caress. Nearly breathless from the agony engulfing him, he smiles despite the pain tapping at his temples. Kisses rain down on his lips, stealing away the broken whimpering. He convulses and feels like screaming as the migraine carries on ravaging his mind. He bites his lip so hard he splits the skin and taste blood.

Sam’s honey-sweet lips shush him gently, calming him. Pain stabs at his forehead, and he closes his eyes, willing the ache to disappear. Light fingertips brush over his temple with a tender touch, shooing away the hurt. Sam continues to draw little circles on his forehead, caressing away the stabbing pain that makes him clench his fingers so tightly his knuckles fade white. The lights dim the room, barely enough glow to see by; Dean is grateful for the kindness.

Gentle arms circle around his waist and a familiar body cuddles in close, breath warm against his neck to make him shiver. The fingers find the source of the hurt on his temple and press gently, he gasps at the touch—it hurts, but underneath there is the promise of quivering relief.

With each heartbeat the soft touch glides away the pain swiftly. It’s scorching heat in the bedroom during this hot summer, but the swells of cool lips kissing his forehead cause his body to break out into goosebumps shivers. Like the angel he is, his lover lays next to him, curls up into his warmth, encasing him in an angelic hold, offering him heavenly peace in this time of sorrow.

Eventually, Sam has eased the hurt away until only a little twinge of pain lingers. The bubble bath removes the last of the pain; the cool, gentle brush of the soft wash cloth over his body makes him sigh blissfully, the bubbles on top of the warm water tickle him, the softness of skin under his back as he lays in Sam's embrace in the bathtub. Dean’s eyes roll lazily; he is a bit out of it as the afterglow slowly burns through him.

Relaxed in Sam's arms as his brother presses a soft kiss to his temple, his body is swarming with sweet bliss that cocoons him like a warm, soft blanket, and he is so calm and peaceful that he floats somewhere in the warm and soothing realm of happiness.

They don’t move for a while, not until the bathwater is cold and Dean shivers, but Sam quickly gets him dried off with a big, fluffy towel and then dressed on cozy sweats and one of his fluffy oversized hoodies. Returning to the bed, Dean can barely keep his eyes open. He stumbles on wobbly legs, guided by Sam at his side helping him under the soft sheets.

When they cuddle up in bed, Dean lays in the crook of Sam's side, snuggled up close with his head on his brother's chest. Right now he feels good, warm and safe.

Sam tucks the soft silk around Dean and then wraps his arms around his body, his hands softly petting up and down Dean's back. He brushes his palm up and down his brother’s spine, his touch feather-light and soothing. Dean knows damn well that Hell is real, and now, tucked into Sam’s kindhearted embrace, he feels like he is in heaven.

♥ END ♥

**Author's Note:**

> [Written for this prompt!](https://comment-fic.livejournal.com/956834.html?thread=109605026#t109605026)


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